


That winter had been particularly cold...

by Maia_Nebula



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: How Sherlock and Lestrade meet, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 01:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maia_Nebula/pseuds/Maia_Nebula
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn’t high when he first sees Lestrade. Also, despite the general public’s assumption, they don’t exactly meet through a case.





	That winter had been particularly cold...

\-----

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn’t high when he first sees Lestrade. Also, despite the general public’s assumption, they don’t exactly meet through a case.

\-----

That winter had been particularly cold. As he braved the wind, drawing his coat tighter around him to keep the icy air out, Sherlock could hear the frost-covered ground under his feet crunching loudly. With every step he took, his brain chastised him for rejecting the ride from Vauxhall to Crouch End just to aggravate his brother.

Because, yes, there was a growing possibility he’d be dead before he could cross the Bridge.

But Sherlock was nothing if not resourceful so, to distract himself from the chill, he decided to step into his Mind Palace for a bit. It had become a disordered mess due the irritation that always accompanied meeting Mycroft, and clearing it up would entertain him, at least until he found a cab.

Because there was no way he’d be able to walk to the flat now. It was just too bloody _cold_. And, although staying in his Mind Palace would slow down his movements, he’d rather dawdle without feeling frozen than succumb to hypothermia on a death march. 

So he programmed his walking route in his head before letting himself cross its threshold. The situation in it was worse than he’d imagined.

He started straightening up the furniture and moving key information around, all while wondering what his brother was up to: Mycroft had been strangely engrossed in their brief conversation that night and, even though Sherlock had made sure to not-use for two days before seeing him, his brother’s concern during this last encounter had been obvious. In fact, when Sherlock got up to leave, Mycroft furrowed his brow and passed Sherlock the month’s check without prompting.  
“Do be careful.”

Not willing to be manhandled by Mycroft’s guards, as had happened repeatedly in the past, Sherlock pocketed it and smiled tightly.  
_“I always am.”_

Because he wasn’t an addict, no matter what Mycroft said. He could control his urges while clean and his actions while high, and if that wasn’t–

The air was pushed out of his lungs abruptly as his back hit the pavement and his eyes stared up at the winter sky. _What the–_

And then he was able to focus on a man, slightly shorter than himself, that was moving on top of him, wind running through his silver-streaked hair. 

Instincts kicking in, Sherlock pushed the man off and tried to turn around, only to be pulled back by his tie. His breathing cut short suddenly, Sherlock still had enough of his wits about him to promise himself he’d never wear a tie again. 

He tried kicking the man off unsuccessfully as he was pinned to the ground, but the man was stronger than he seemed. Knowing he was on the losing side, Sherlock fought for breath, tilting his head back to get some air back in his lungs. He could see the MI6 building behind him, to his left, and the bridge farther away, to his left as well. When had he deviated from his set course? Where had this man come from?

_And where the fuck were Mycroft’s guards?_

The man plastered his body against Sherlock’s, apparently intent on crushing him. Sherlock gasped and tried to push him off again.  
“Stop fighting me, you cunt!”

The backhand was followed by the man pulling him into a sitting position by his lapels. They were breathing each other’s air.

Sherlock was pulled even closer.

He could feel his legs tangled with the man’s and tried to still his heart, to identify who it was, to determine weak points. The man did not seem to like this.

Sherlock gasped as his head was forcefully yanked back by his hair. His body reacted on its own to protect him, sending his hands up to the fist tangled in it to try to pull himself loose. That was enough time for the man to open Sherlock’s coat and push his other hand inside.

In his head, Sherlock could hear the London Philharmonic Orchestra but couldn’t identify what it played. 

He was jolted out of it, suddenly aware that he was laying down again, a ragdoll left out in the cold, the only source of warmth near him moving against him in a way that didn’t suggest robbery or that it would end soon.

He had to go back, he knew, as soon as possible.

Shocks of pain from where his wrists were being pinned down distracted him briefly, but he kept his gaze fixed on the sky above – there was no use in angering the man again, and he could not fathom how to escape. His eyes burned. His body heat was melting the snow.

But he was on the threshold again, his hand pushing the door open too slowly for his liking.

He was brought out by cold fingers finally making contact with the skin under his jumper, in a tight grip that would undoubtedly shift him to a more accessible position. He vowed to never wear jumpers again. 

The door was finally open, allowing him to step into the disarrayed foyer.

But he was pulled out of it once more. Stubble irritated the skin of his jaw and neck. The man’s hand shifted from Sherlock’s skin to his own clothing, under his black coat, his white shirt. Snow continued melting under him.

Sherlock had no other option: their movements would soon become rhythmic. He had to try and shut out the noise, the impending pain, the world itself.

The London Philharmonic Orchestra started playing again.

He was running out of time – he _had_ to hide – the man would soon be ready.

The music was growing louder. He concentrated on it.

_It was Adagio for Strings, Op. 11._

Sherlock smiled miserably as he braced against a wall: it was a moving piece, extolled by critics for its exemplification of pathos and catharsis. It was also used during high-profile funerals and times of mourning, which was fitting since, although unaware of what was happening to his body, he knew he’d have a reason to mourn soon.

Now was not the time, though. No, he would take advantage of this brief respite to continue his work. After all, he might have to _distract_ himself for a while and his Mind Palace definitely needed fixing: water was suddenly leaking in and the walls and floors had just fractured, cold air seeping in through their cracks.

He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if he should just wait a few more minutes to save himself the trouble, because his Mind Palace would then be so ruined that fixing it would no longer be an option.

A rough shake brought him back to where he was. 

The man was moving, _was being moved_ , had been pistol-whipped off! _Mycroft, at last!_ , his brain cried out, relief and gratefulness overpowering him. Or maybe he was just too cold to move, but he was grateful all the same.

He had never been so happy to be able to expand his lungs –to breathe in cold air– in his life. Thus, he didn’t stop to look at the procedures and concentrated on the stars above, ensconced in the black vault of heaven, impervious to harm. He knew he was disheveled, and his front half was freezing, and he was starting to tremble, but he was safe!

And then a face stepped into view – the grey-haired man!

Sherlock gasped and choked, torn between cowering and trying to escape, lest he angered the man again. But the man put his gun away and slowly raised his hands in surrender, before looking at some point to the right...

...where, to Sherlock’s surprise, his attacker lay face down on the snow.

Sherlock turned back to the man standing above him, who held his gaze. He spoke in a clear voice.  
“Are you all right?”

He could see it now. They had the same hair, similar clothing, almost identical build, but this man was with the Met. The other was one of his unpaid dealers – _Greg_. 

The check burned in his jacket's inner pocket – he had needed it to pay them all back but, apparently, he’d run out of time with this one. For a moment he wondered if he would still have had to pay after–  
“Are you all right?”, the man insisted, frowning. Was he worried?

Sherlock nodded. 

He would never befriend a ‘Greg’ again.

But did he still owe him? The man was unconscious, so he couldn’t ask and, in any case, the check had been ruined by the melted snow. What was he supposed to do? 

_And what would Mycroft say? Would he gloat, repeating his ‘do be careful’ phrase?_

The man returned the nod and sighed in apparent relief.  
“Do you think you can stand up or at least move? You’ve probably been outside long enough.”

It took Sherlock a moment to reply since, though he’d been walking for quite a while, Greg’s assault had taken a couple of minutes, _hour-long minutes_ , at most. Unsure, he nodded again before thinking that that did not answer the man’s question. The man extended his hand all the same.

He wanted to shrink away from it but he couldn’t because it would make no sense. So instead he shrugged and accepted his help, feeling weak at the knees and wobbling slightly on his feet once he’d stood up.  
“You ok?”  
“Ye–yes.” He shivered.

As expected, his skin had recoiled at the touch. Seemingly oblivious, the man let go.

Sherlock then looked down at himself and shuddered: the attacker had gone far but, mercifully, not far enough. He zipped and buttoned and buckled everything he had on, all the while repeating to himself, although he didn’t feel like it, that he was safe.

And, after a short while, the music stopped.

\-----

Nowadays, he likes to believe he’s put it all behind him, conveniently ignoring how he’s changed.

Because, from that night on, he likes the cold but dislikes the snow.

And because, every now and then, he dreams about what happened. Sometimes it unfolds exactly as he remembers it; other times the man doesn’t stop or the attacker is Lestrade. Sherlock tries to avoid those nights, tries to not sleep when he knows a nightmare is coming. As a result, he ends up so exhausted that he doesn’t dream much, if at all, while the London Philharmonic Orchestra plays quietly in the background.

Even unconsciously he tries to avoid triggers when he’s awake, and has successfully learned to dissociate his experience from his cases... 

The only evidence that unequivocally tells him he hasn’t forgotten it is that he still keeps the promises he made himself back then:

He never wears a tie.

He never wears a jumper.

And he never calls the DI by his given name.


End file.
